Zachary Kluckman

For a Cup Full of Color

The palms of his hands are negatives,
a rough cut circle of pale flesh fingering color.
His hands are used to a rough wash,
scrubbed clean with oatmeal and rain,
long fingers dried individually on stained towel.
Old razor soaking in a chipped cup.

His reflection broods darkly in a cup,
despite his electric smile, now positive then negative.
He leaves his shadow on the towel
when he dries his face, a smudge of color
that soaks into the cloth like rain.
The tent is dark and smells of wash.

Outside, the elephants, in need of wash
are handled with leather gloves by a man whose cup,
before he’s done, will fill with rain.
The sky is dark, lit with lightning, negative.
Exposed clouds gamble with color,
risk blue hints like static on dry towel.

Alone in thought, one hand on towel,
his thoughts breed storms, the way streets will wash
with dirt and clay, scarlet muddy color.
Ozone, crisp and bitter as coffee in his cup.
C’mon old man, no use being negative,
after all, we can really use the rain.

He listens to dry canvas trapping rain.
Head back on thick, restful arm and pillow towel.
A photo burns in his wallet, negative
exposure of a woman and baby in the wash,
a brand new bar of soap in a chipped cup.
He remembers her eyes, can’t recall the color.

He wonders if thunder has any color.
Outside, elephants and handler curse the rain.
His thumbs don’t fit the handle of the cup.
The stubble drying on his towel
a reminder of how mama’s tears would wash
her eyes colorless and negative.

For the promise of a cup full of color
to destroy the negative, paint between the rain,
he wears greasepaint, and sometimes forgets to wash.